


we've got all the spark to set this place on fire

by dinnerdrudgery



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Break Up, Post-Trade, but like........... 3-way pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 13:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinnerdrudgery/pseuds/dinnerdrudgery
Summary: He’s thinking so hard he almost misses the couple’s announcement of whether they’ll love it or list it, but it goes to commercial first.“I love you,” John says, only it comes out as “List it.”“Love it,” Jordan challenges without missing a beat, and, stupidly, John hearsI love you, too.





	we've got all the spark to set this place on fire

**Author's Note:**

> june 2016 to january 2018.  
> title is from mad love by neon trees.

“The #Oilers have acquired defenceman Adam Larsson from the @NJDevils in exchange for forward Taylor Hall,” the tweet says, and that’s — quite a way to start the day.

Jordan knew it was coming, of course — he’s seen the rumors, and Taylor mentioned something about the weather in New Jersey once, before their breakup, but.

It’s June now, and Taylor hasn’t spoken to Jordan since the end of the regular season, and it feels like a very deliberate punch to the gut waking up to a sympathetic _you ok???_ text from Nuge, and one from Leon that, eloquently, just says _wanna get drunk tonight i just saw the news_.

The thing is, okay — is that he _knows_ this has nothing to do with him, there’s some other reason Chiarelli decided Taylor’s time was up. The Devils must have given him an offer he couldn’t turn down. And, yet, he still feels responsible, like Taylor _wanted_ the trade just to get away from him or something. It’s — unlikely, really, hockey is a business and trades happen all the time, no matter how much this particular one stings. He just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think when he hasn’t heard from Taylor in months and then he gets this news, is all he’s saying.

So, he responds to Nuge with a no and to Leon with a yes and drags himself into the shower out of necessity more than anything, and then he goes out.

He loses count of how many fruity drinks he has that night, under Leon’s instruction, but he still tastes flavored vodka on his tongue when he stumbles back into his apartment and his shoulders aren’t nearly as tense as they were before the sun set so he calls the night a success.

Taylor calls him the next day, and maybe it’s the hangover or maybe it’s his own internal spite, but — Jordan lets it go to voicemail.

He deletes the message as soon as he knows another isn’t coming.

*

It’s November, now, and Jordan finally knows how to be single again: he plays some solid hockey to start the season, goes out after wins with the guys more often than not, and doesn’t think much about how he used to feel a lot warmer at night back when he still had a roommate.

For the most part, it works.

Though Jordan hates to admit it, even to himself, it’s still weird, for the first few weeks, coming home to an empty apartment, because all he’s known since he started playing with the Oilers was Taylor’s loud, comforting laugh, his really impressively awful cooking and his surprisingly spectacular coffee, and it just — doesn’t feel right, suddenly being without all of that, is all.

Jordan’s never been good at being alone.

*

It’s January.

The weather’s dipping below zero, Taylor’s coming back to Edmonton with a point streak that has everyone talking, and Jordan no longer feels like they should still be playing with each other and not against.

The game goes as everyone predicted it would — Taylor keeps his point streak alive with a breakaway goal in the second. Not long after that, though, the puck finds its way to the front of the Devils net and Leon jams it home with twelve seconds left in the period, and it’s miraculously still tied a period later and Jordan has a good feeling going into overtime, which is something he’s almost getting used to thinking this season.

“Ebs, hey,” Taylor says, stopping him in the tunnel after intermission. Jordan thinks he sees Taylor almost smile. Or try to, anyway. And Jordan doesn’t miss the way Taylor tenses ever so slightly when he says, “Can we talk?”

Taylor’s never in his life heard of a poker face — that much hasn’t changed.

“After my boys kick your ass, sure,” Jordan replies with the slightest semblance of a returning smile, too elated over Leon’s tying goal to come up with a more neutral response. Taylor seems satisfied enough with it, regardless.

Jordan scores the game-winning goal in double overtime, and sure, they could use as many wins as they can get leading up to the All Star break, but it still feels like a personal victory more than anything; hearing his name called as first star of the game is _incredible_. He follows Taylor blissfully back to the empty arena and they sit in the nosebleed seats and Taylor congratulates him on the win, uncomfortably stoically.

“That was a great goal, too,” he says, and he’s still kind of frowning, and that’s never been a good look on him. “Textbook wind-up at the point and everything.”

Jordan smiles, easy. He can be friends with Taylor. “Thanks, it felt pretty good, yeah.” He pauses. “Yours, too.”

Taylor just nods, looking more and more like he wants to sink into the floor and disappear by the minute.

“How’s New Jersey?” Jordan asks, because for as much as Taylor’s gushed about his new team to the media recently, he figures it’s as good a question to ask as any.

“I miss you,” is what Taylor says, as if he’s saying _oh, you know, nice and sunny_ and not the confession Jordan didn’t know he was dreading hearing.

“You broke up with _me_ ,” and Taylor makes a face.

“I fucked up,” because he’s apparently dead-set on ruining Jordan’s good mood.

 _Tell me something I don’t know_ , Jordan wants to say but doesn’t. “Nobody was forcing you to break up with me,” is what he says instead. _You said you didn’t love me_ is what he means.

“Just — give me another chance,” Taylor’s saying, and Jordan is all of chances to give.

Jordan doesn’t say anything for a long while, and then he finally says, “You should go,” because this conversation isn’t one Jordan wants to continue having.

And Taylor doesn’t have anything else to say to that, so he goes.

*

Winter goes as fast as it came, and then it’s June again, and the trade comes as more of a surprise for Jordan than Ryan.

See, Jordan isn’t naive enough to not notice Chiarelli’s newfound plan of trading away core franchise players in exchange for new, younger, shinier toys with the vague hope that a rebuild somehow falls into his hands. And Jordan knows better than to believe he was the exception, he just — wasn’t expecting it to happen so quickly. He thought he had more time.

And Ryan — Ryan knows he’s been under-producing. He knows he’s not playing like the high first-round draft pick he used to be, that the Islanders were expecting him to be, he knew he wasn’t on the best terms with his coach, he knew he didn’t have much time left. He knew and he knew and he knew, and he’d be lying to himself to say he didn’t see this coming, but the trade means he has to have a decidedly unfun conversation he was hoping to be able to put off a little while longer.

Anyway, Jordan calls Ryan right after the trade breaks, mostly to see how he’s handling it.

Ryan picks up on the second ring. “You saw the news, huh,” he says; he sounds tired, but not unhappy.

“Yeah,” Jordan says, manages to laugh a little at the irony of it all.

“Hey, at least you already know you look good in orange and blue,” Ryan says, and Jordan’s suddenly thankful nobody’s here to see his cheeks reddening at the compliment.

“You too,” he says weakly, and, predictably, it doesn’t come out nearly as smoothly as it had when Jordan was on the receiving end of it. If Ryan has a similar reaction, Jordan will never know.

“Edmonton’s not all that different than New York, I guess,” Ryan says after a moment, contemplatively. “Except, you know. Different country. But it’s basically the same, right?”

“That’s just — Ryan, dude, that’s not even a _little_ bit true,” Jordan says, and he’s laughing, _really_ laughing now, and Ryan’s laughing, too.

He asks about the tourism in Edmonton and Jordan has to bite back another laugh when he says, “Gotta impress the locals,” but he makes a list for Ryan of his favorite coffee shops and restaurants and tells him about the zoo and aquarium that he used to love when he was a kid.

He knows he shouldn’t ask, it’s none of his business at all, it might ruin the entire conversation, but then he’s saying, “Are you and John, y’know,” before he can stop himself, and he doesn’t finish that sentence.

Maybe he’s just curious, maybe he wants to know if this is how it always goes. If there ever was an exception to the unspoken truth that trades and breakups go hand-in-hand, Jordan has a feeling John and Ryan would be it.

“Breaking up,” Ryan finishes for him, and from the tone of Ryan’s voice Jordan thinks he ruined it. “Probably, yeah. I don’t want to, obviously, I just — I don’t know what else to do. I’m moving to fucking _Canada_ , dude.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there,” Jordan says, though he knows that’s not incredibly reassuring or anything. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s — it’ll be okay,” Ryan says, and he’s trying hard to make it seem like he believes it. “Everything happens for a reason, you know?”

“Sure.”

The line goes silent, for a minute, but Ryan doesn’t hang up. Eventually, Jordan says, “It’s not Brooklyn, but Edmonton’s nice,” when he can’t stand the silence anymore. “You’ll like it here.”

*

“Jordan Eberle, Ryan Strome get fresh starts with trade,” the article reads, and maybe a new beginning is exactly what both of them didn’t know they needed.

*

“How’re you liking Brooklyn?” John asks after ordering another drink. They’re at John’s favorite bar, a couple drinks in after a full day of being tourists in Jordan’s new city, and the silence is just starting to get uncomfortable.

“It’s alright,” Jordan says, and all John can hear is doesn’t feel like home. “Warmer than Canada.”

It’s July, approaching the first heat wave of the season, and that much is very true. “We’ve still got shitty winters,” John points out, and Jordan smiles, and that’s about as much as John can expect out of the night.

At home later that night they’re watching the Mets game, not quite yet ready to sleep off the alcohol, when John kisses Jordan in a spurt of misplaced fearlessness.

And Jordan kisses him back, which is — something; Jordan’s hand tangles in his hair and his mouth is ghosting over a particularly sensitive spot on his neck before he can decide what that something is, however, and John is the furthest thing from complaining.

When Jordan doesn’t take things any further, John has to remind himself it’s not a bad thing. He knows he isn’t quite ready for a rebound anything, and he assumes Jordan isn’t ready to be a rebound thing, either, so they leave it at that. Jordan falls asleep in John’s bed, though, which feels like a good something.

The Mets’ walk-off home run that night feels important, more than it would on any other night. They win seven runs to none.

*

John doesn’t know when he started feeling this way.

See, as cliché as it sounds, Jordan is the complete opposite of Ryan. That’s not to say it’s a bad thing, and sure, John’s attracted to them both for a reason he doesn’t quite understand because with Ryan, he thought he had a _type_ , but where Ryan is headstrong and spontaneous, adaptable because he has to be and able to bring John out of his comfort zone in a way nobody else quite can, Jordan’s careful, poised. Everything he does is on and off the ice is the result of knowing every possible outcome. Lately John feels like everything in his life has been out of his control.

So, when he realizes that night — rather belatedly, he’ll later figure out — with Jordan’s head nestled into his shoulder and his breathing hot against his neck, that he really, really loves Jordan, he thinks it could be a good something.

*

John’s biting into a piece of toast the next morning when Jordan says, “You should go talk to Ryan,” and John — he drops his toast, and it falls to the ground almost mockingly, because he’s embarrassing.

“With the way we ended things, I don’t think he’d want to hear from me,” John says, trying not to sound completely miserable about it and failing epically. He just — doesn’t know what he’d even say, considering the last conversation he had with Ryan wasn’t a pleasant one by any means.

“No, like, _go talk to him_.” Jordan glares at him — gently, because there’s nothing about Jordan that isn’t — as if to tell him to get his shit together but, like, politely. “I don’t know what happened with you two, but what you guys had was — special. Don’t let him let go of it this easily, yeah?”

John’s not sure where that’s coming from, but he hears a twinge of sadness in Jordan’s voice so he says, “Yeah, you’re right,” and ends up looking at flights to Edmonton a week later.

“Good,” Jordan says, beaming around a forkful of scrambled eggs, and it all feels a little wrong.

“We’re still—” John starts, stopping abruptly because he doesn’t know how to ask, and he looks very seriously at his plate before trying again. “We’re still good? After, y’know — last night.”

Jordan nods, squeezes John’s knee gently. “We’re good.”

*

It’s late in the afternoon when Jordan drops John off at the airport, and he spends a long time in the parking lot with his head pressed to the steering wheel afterward because the thing with John is just — all the way back when they were teenagers, when John still had cheeks you could squeeze like a baby’s and a goofy smile and wasn’t introduced to the concept of a decent haircut yet, Jordan was a little in love with him.

And since moving in with John all Jordan could ever think about is how John really grew into his smile and fixed his hair but he’s still the same as he was when he was eighteen, and John _kissed him_ and it was late, and it was one too many whiskey sours, and it was a mistake, it was a mistake, it was a mistake.

Jordan’s run through all the possible reasons that aren’t that John wanted it as much as Jordan did but the fact is it didn’t feel like an accident, it felt real.

And that’s how he puts two and two together and comes to the conclusion that yeah, he never really stopped being in love with him, and it feels like a special kind of punishment watching John leave to be with the boy he loves.

Jordan remembers a time when his life wasn’t this complicated.

*

So it’s the beginning of August, now, and John’s boarding a seven-hour flight to Edmonton before he even has time to think twice about what he’s about to do.

Whatever. It’s a grand romantic gesture, he’ll come up with something.

Once he lands he calls Jordan and asks him if he has any idea where Ryan’s staying because Jordan still knows the city like the back of his hand, and Jordan just laughs.

John sighs. “It’s not like I _planned_ this.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Jordan snickers. “I’ll text him and ask for you, if you want?”

“That’d be great, just — don’t tell him I asked?”

“I know how to keep a secret, man. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Okay, that’s — good, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Jordan says wryly.

“I’m gonna get a coffee,” John decides, as it’s half past eleven and he’s jetlagged as hell. “I’ll call you back though?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Whatever will you do without me while I’m gone,” John teases, though it doesn’t come out as anything but fond.

“Four days, Tavares,” Jordan snorts. “Don’t worry about me, go get your boy.”

*

John gets a text message with an address and an oddly reassuring smiley face ten minutes later. John forgets to call him back, though, and Jordan was never expecting him to.

Jordan will deny it if anyone asks him, but the house feels too quiet that first night. He falls asleep without the sound of John snoring softly on the other side of the bed, and he’s acutely aware of how wrong it feels throughout the night.

*

John’s just beginning to think maybe this isn’t such a great idea as he walks into the hotel lobby and in the direction of the front desk, but he’s already here, so. He’s doing this.

“Who are you here to see?” the woman behind the desk asks, barely looking up from her computer.

“Ryan Strome,” and it’s too late to talk himself out of this now.

“What’s your name?”

“John Tavares,” John says, and that — that makes her look up.

John starts to think it’s the ‘I’m talking to an NHL player’ thing until she says, “So _you’re_ John,” an amused look gracing her face, and what the hell is that supposed to mean. “Fourth floor, first door on the left. Good luck.”

 _Good luck_ echoes in his ears until he’s at Ryan’s door as he tries to figure out if it was supposed to be, like, encouraging, or if she was mocking him because she could sense that he was nervous, or if maybe she didn’t mean anything by it at all and he’s just overthinking until his brain burns out.

And then he’s face-to-face with room 401, so he has to take a deep breath and knock before he thinks better of it.

Ryan opens the door almost immediately, and all he manages is, “Um, hi,” looking utterly stunned.

“Hey,” John says, and he’s smiling a little and God, Ryan really missed that smile. “We should talk.”

“What,” Ryan mutters, because John’s — he’s _here_ , he was in New York when Ryan woke up this morning and now he’s at Ryan’s front door, awfully underdressed for how chilly Edmonton gets at night and this — this isn’t happening. People don’t — nobody’s ever cared enough to come all this way for Ryan Strome, and he didn’t think anyone was about to start now.

“Are you going to let me in?” John asks, and Ryan nods dumbly and opens the door wider to give John room to walk inside. John stands in the entryway to the kitchen and shoves his hands in his pockets as Ryan paces around the room, and it’s an overall uncomfortable situation — John has to remind himself he didn’t come all the way here for _nothing_ , so he starts talking. “I made a mistake, letting you pull us apart — I didn’t think we could handle the distance.”

“We _can’t_ handle it, you’re over a thousand miles away,” and he doesn’t look at John as he says it. “I didn’t pull us apart, I was _traded_ , and you can’t just drop everything to come visit like this whenever you feel like it.”

“We’re adults, we can deal with a little distance,” John counters. His voice is firm but his eyes are so, so soft.

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound,” Ryan says, quieter now. “I had no other choice.”

“I didn’t fly here from two thousand miles away for you to tell me this won’t be easy,” John says, and he sounds so sure, and Ryan can’t argue with that, really. “I’m serious about this, I want to start over,” and maybe Ryan’s not out of his mind for thinking they can do it.

After a long moment of silence, he finally, _finally_ looks up at John and says, “Okay, we can try the long distance thing, I guess.”

John perks an eyebrow at him. “Are you — you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Ryan says, because he’s never been more sure, and they’re so close to each other, now, that he could lean forward just so and their noses would be touching, “now come on and kiss me already.”

“Always so bossy,” John says, but he does exactly that, kissing him long and hard and making up for three goddamn weeks of just thinking about how he’d probably have to forget the feeling of this. “Missed this,” he mumbles, pressing gentle kisses down Ryan’s neck.

“Missed _you_ ,” Ryan says, breathy and needy and _honest_ , and John doesn’t have to say anything for Ryan to know the feeling’s mutual.

*

Ryan doesn’t know how he ever slept without John beside him.

*

John goes home at the end of the week, and it’s well past two in the morning when he unlocks the front door quietly.

“Your boy finally come to his senses?” Jordan calls out from the living room. He’s watching Love It or List It, and it has to be because John likes it since it really can’t be because _Jordan_ likes it — he’s complained habitually about how boring he finds HGTV whenever John so much as _flips past the channel_. And that’s — that’s something John needs to think about later. “Also, this show is boring as shit, I don’t get how you like it.”

“He did,” John says, and it’s so easy to sit next to Jordan, their shoulders pressed together purposefully, and turn up the volume as the couple’s about to show the couple their house after renovations. (The couple’s about to hate it, because that’s how this show goes nine times out of ten.) “Good to be home, though.”

Jordan’s smiling a little as he says, “That’s really good, Johnny,” and something in John’s heart flips onto its side when he says, “I’m really happy for you, y’know, you — you should always be happy, both of you, and I’m glad Ryan isn’t stubborn enough not to realize that.”

John thinks it’s — weird, maybe, that after the kiss nothing changed between them. Like they still need to talk about it, because he just — he needs to know if it meant anything to Jordan, too, or if it was just a convenience thing, that John was just there and Jordan thought _why not, right?_ — and John was the one who kissed Jordan first, anyway.

He’s thinking so hard he almost misses the couple’s announcement of whether they’ll love it or list it, but it goes to commercial first.

“I love you,” John says, only it comes out as “List it.”

“Love it,” Jordan challenges without missing a beat, and, stupidly, John hears _I love you, too_.

“You’re kidding,” John says, because the walls in the kitchen are blue and in the living room they’re white, and none of their furniture matches either color scheme. “The house is a mess. Nothing matches.”

“Better than anything else they’d find in the middle of summer if they listed.” Jordan yawns, and the worst part about that is he’s right.

*

John couldn’t tell you what the couple did with their house, because Jordan’s falling asleep on John’s shoulder again, and John forgets to breathe, unable to pay attention to anything but the slow, steady rise and fall of Jordan’s chest as he dozes off.

*

It’s November again, and despite offseason moves made with the best of intentions for a bright season, the season starts off as it usually does — which is to say, disappointingly. A series of subpar road trips and mediocre third periods at home has the team going into the new month with a less than optimistic attitude.

(Are you starting to see a common theme here?)

As usual, John’s been the one taking it the hardest, which is why after an especially unenthusiastic morning skate, Nick takes John out for lunch for the sake of catching up and trying to turn his frown back into a smile.

“I have to take Ebs home,” John protests, which isn’t untrue, and when Nick doesn’t bat an eyelash he tries again: “I’m — busy.”

“With?”

“Things.”

“Things,” Nick repeats skeptically. “Those things can wait,” he says, so John doesn’t resist further.

They go to Nick’s favorite diner and share a plate of fries and talk shit about the Penguins, mostly, and then out of nowhere Nick says, “So. Jordan, huh.”

John freezes, sticks a fry in his mouth to give himself time to think of how to respond to that because he knows what comes after this and he doesn’t know that he’s ready to talk about it.

“You always sit together at team meals,” Nick points out, and that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. “You’ve smiled at Jordan more times in the past few weeks than you have the past few years.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” John says, and it’s a weak counter argument but whatever, it’s true. John could smile at any time, for any number of reasons.

“No, it _does_ ,” Nick insists. “You’ve been, like, depressingly serious lately, and you haven’t smiled around us once when it was anyone but Jordan making dumb jokes, or falling on his ass during practice, or just, _existing_ , it’s cheesy as hell.”

John doesn’t say anything yet, so Nick continues. “And I mean, I know you and Ryan worked out your shit, and that’s awesome. But you can’t tell me you’re not interested in Ebs, too.”

“I can’t have _both_ , if that’s what you’re asking?”

“If you want to, and your boy wants to — and, honestly, he’d be stupid _not_ to — then I don’t see why you can’t have both,” Nick shrugs. “Just. Think about it, see what Ryan says, and tell me I’m not a genius once you figure your shit out. _Again_.”

“I’ll think about it,” John offers, and he does mean it, but honestly, just thinking about how to start that conversation makes his head hurt.

(Maybe if he puts it off long enough, his feelings will just go away, or he’ll die.)

Eventually, the conversation shifts to their upcoming road trip, and Nick is more than happy to complain about the entire state of California and how it’s just too big, objectively. (“ _Seriously_ , no state needs three hockey teams, Johnny, it’s a total waste.”

John doesn’t have the heart to tell him that California is undoubtedly big enough to get away with it — or, for that matter, that the state they live in _also_ has three teams — so he orders another plate of fries and lets Nick ramble.)

*

Jordan finds the photos accidentally.

Which isn’t to say they’re hidden or anything, Jordan could’ve very found them much earlier if he wanted to, but, see, he only notices things — _really_ notices them — when he’s looking for them, and he certainly wasn’t looking for these.

John had asked him to help look for his keys, because they’ll be late to be practice if he doesn’t find them in the next five minutes. Jordan had offered to check the living room, while John was still crouched by the bedroom looking under the dresser.

They’re not on the coffee table, but a photo of Ryan on his draft day is. His smile is genuine and the Islanders cap fits so snugly over his hair, and Jordan almost wishes it had worked out.

John didn’t drop them on the floor anywhere in here either, but when Jordan looks up from the carpet, there’s another photo, this time of both Ryan _and_ John. It’s a cheesy photo op: they’re standing in front of the CN Tower, there’s snow on the ground, and the sun’s setting in the backdrop. It’s a beautiful photo, but Jordan can’t help but feel like it’s too intimate and he shouldn’t have seen it at all.

The photo adjacent to it is a candid, and Jordan’s not even pretending to look for the keys anymore; they’re on a boat somewhere, and John’s hands are at Ryan’s waist as his head is buried in Ryan’s neck. Ryan’s smiling brightly, because he always is, and it’s — a lot.

Jordan stands dazed in the middle of the room for a long time until John’s footsteps bring him back to Earth. And Christ, he thought his giant crush on John was his best kept secret — and his _only_ one, but apparently that’s not how this is going anymore. “I found ‘em,” John says, dangling the keys as proof. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” something in Jordan says.

“Let’s go, then,” and Jordan follows John out the door.

Jordan fumbles every easy pass at practice that morning, and he can’t blame that on anything but his new revelation that not only is he completely gone over his teammate, but his teammate’s boyfriend as well now.

*

Ryan lands in New York at half past eleven at night, and he Skypes John an hour later once he’s settled in his hotel room.

“Hey,” Ryan says. “What are you guys up to tonight?”

“Ebs and I ordered takeout from that Thai place he likes, and we might—”

And then he goes silent, because Jordan walks into the room, toweling off his damp hair wearing only a pair of boxers, and John can’t look away.

“We might watch a movie later,” he finally finishes, his voice absurdly unsteady.

Ryan rolls his eyes fondly and turns his attention to Jordan. “Hey Ebs, a shower after midnight, really?”

“I was busy,” Jordan shrugs, dropping onto the couch next to John. “How’s Edmonton treating you?”

“About the same as Brooklyn,” Ryan says with a smirk, and Jordan bites his lip to stifle a laugh. “It's colder, is probably the better answer.”

“S’cold everywhere, babe,” John says, and Ryan sticks his tongue out stubbornly.

“I should — get changed before the food comes, give you two some alone time,” Jordan says suddenly, and then he’s gone before either of them can object.

“So,” Ryan says once Jordan’s out of earshot. “You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you.”

“You know, you’re the second person to ask me that,” John says, and seriously, how obvious must John _be_ about the fact that yeah, he has a thing for Jordan. “It’s not — it’s just — I still love you.”

“I’m a total catch, I understand,” Ryan grins. “I do too, so. Don’t feel bad, or whatever,” and that’s — new. Of all the possible responses John was preparing himself for, he was expecting this one the least. “We should probably talk about it later, though.” “We could do lunch tomorrow,” John offers, and Ryan nods in agreement, and that’s that.

They lapse into easy conversation after that about how weird — “ _so_ weird,” according to Ryan, if you were wondering — tomorrow’s game is going to be for awhile before John hears the front door open and close, which means their dinner is here.

“Enjoy it,” Ryan says, adding after a second “the food, too,” and hanging up in a fit of laughter before John can come up with a reply to justify the deep blush that covers his cheeks.

When John walks into the kitchen, Jordan’s sitting on the countertop, now fully dressed in old sweatpants and an oversized Islanders hoodie. “Good talk?”

John nods. “Mostly about tomorrow’s game,” he says vaguely, and leaves it at that.

Jordan knows there’s more John isn’t telling him, but he lets it go. “You ready to kick your boy’s ass tomorrow?”

“Always,” John says, and then they’re debating the logistics of how the _Oilers_ are currently higher up in the standings than the Islanders, and John doesn’t feel so upside-down anymore.

After dinner, John gets a tub of ice cream out of the freezer and Jordan gets two spoons, and this — this feels right.

*

If Ryan thinks long and hard about it, he’ll tell you he first fell for Jordan around the time he was traded.

He was just about to break up with John when Jordan called, and yeah, he was moping a little, but Jordan — Jordan made it okay, somehow. Made it feel like they were going to be okay.

And then he and John were okay, and Jordan was still Jordan, bright and happy and making dinner while Ryan’s on Skype with John, and doubling his point production with John by his side like it’s easy, and _making Ryan cookies for his birthday_ — Ryan gets the package of homemade chocolate chip cookies two days before the day of his actual birthday, and they’re better than his mom’s are, and Ryan — Ryan would always have fallen for Jordan like this, in any universe, at any time, any day of the week, even if Jordan wouldn’t have him. So he and John talk about it.

*

Ryan and John go to a local pizza place for lunch that they’ve been to a million times together before; they split a pizza with extra pepperoni like they always used to and it all feels normal until Ryan says, “So. Jordan.”

“I mean, I was honestly kind of surprised that you didn’t freak out or anything,” John admits, and Ryan laughs.

“C’mon, it’d be more of a surprise if I wasn’t into him,” Ryan says. “Like, dude, he’s perfect.”

“Yeah, um — yeah.”

“So, you wanna do this tonight?” Ryan asks him all too casually, and John doesn’t really know how his life got to this point.

“Sure?” John offers, and it’s funny, really, because he’s anything but sure. “I just don’t really know _how_ to?”

Ryan simply shrugs, taking another slice. “You say that like I _do_ know, but it’s probably easy enough. It’s just Ebs.”

“Just Ebs,” John repeats, and it should make him less nervous, it should because it _is_ only Ebs, but — it doesn’t.

*

Jordan’s sitting in bed next to John and Ryan as they all watch some HGTV show John’s been watching a lot recently when Ryan says, “So.”

“So?” Jordan repeats in reply, not taking his eyes off the TV yet as they’re still half watching a couple bicker over whether or not they need more space in their tiny house. (It’s a pointless argument anyway, all three of them acknowledge: it’s a _tiny house_. Of course they need more space.)

“We’ve been thinking — John and I — about, like, our relationship,” Ryan says.

“And,” Jordan prompts, looking at Ryan and John with an arched eyebrow because he really isn’t sure how he’s involved in any of this.

“ _And_ ,” Ryan continues, “after we got back together, right, we felt like we were — missing something?”

“Okay,” Jordan says slowly.

“And since we’re both really into you, we realized—”

“—wait,” Jordan interrupts, because now suddenly everything’s happening too fast. “Both of you — what?”

“We like you,” John says, doing a hell of a job of acting casual about it as he picks up where Ryan stopped. “And we realized we were missing _you_ , because you’re in our lives so much and we’ve been waiting to like, ask you if you wanted it, too?”

Jordan wants to ask how in the world either of them would be into him — let alone _both_ of them, and it’s all a lot to take in so Jordan excuses himself to get a tall glass of water and, like, breathe. He comes back a minute later and sits on the bed again and says, “So, okay. Say all of that again?”

“We want to date you,” John says, patiently, and he sounds — nervous, like he’s asking and not telling. Like he’s not sure what Jordan’s going to say to that. (As if Jordan would say anything but _yes_ , a million times yes.)

“Okay,” Jordan says, almost dizzy with how much he really, really wants that, too.

“We had a whole conversation about it and everything,” Ryan adds proudly and God, they really do want him.

“I’ve liked both of you for what feels like _forever_ ,” Jordan admits slowly, “and I thought I was being too obvious about it, honestly, dude, I even _made you cookies_ , ask me when the last time I baked my mom’s chocolate chip cookies for someone was—” and Jordan doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Ryan tugs him into his lap and kisses him like it’s going out of style.

When Ryan pulls away his hands don’t leave Jordan’s hips as he says, “Was that okay?” and Christ, this kid really is clueless.

“‘Was that okay,’” Jordan repeats, half in disbelief. “I’ve been thinking about this for _months_ , so, you know, sure, it was _okay_.”

“Sweet,” Ryan says, taking Jordan’s hand in his and squeezing it gently.

“Hey,” John says, as if to say _my turn_ , so Jordan moves over to bracket his knees around either side of John’s waist, and kissing John for the second time is nothing like the first time. For one, John looks lazily up at Jordan with this wide smile, and it’s new and exhilarating and Jordan never wants to be looked at any other way.

And this time, he slides his hand under John’s shirt and lets his hand travel around the exposed skin as he runs his other hand through John’s hair, memorizing the way John relaxes into his touch, before leaning down to kiss him. They can take their time, now, but John’s hands are still idly at Jordan’s waist like he’s not sure they belong there, and he kisses just as needy as he did that night so many months ago.

“You should blow him,” Ryan says after a minute, after Jordan pulls away and holds John’s hand with his free hand because he hasn’t let go of Ryan’s; John makes a needy noise in the back of his throat in agreement. Jordan doesn’t need to be told twice.

*

At some point later, once they’ve all cleaned up decently enough and settled into bed for the night, Ryan says, “ _How_ did we go this long without doing any of that,” kind of dreamily, and though Jordan and John are both asleep already, it’s a fairly rhetorical question Ryan knows the answer to.

*

Ryan doesn’t make a big announcement of the whole thing, but.

In the locker room after practice the next day, Nuge walks up to Ryan and says, “Impressive hickey, man, didn’t know JT had it in him.”

“No _way_ could Tavares’ve left a mark like that, the vanilla motherfucker,” Leon shouts from the other side of the room, because his friends are the worst.

“Probably Jordan,” he mumbles, for lack of anything better to say in his defense. “The three of us are — kind of a thing now.”

“I’ve changed my mind, then,” Leon announces. “ _Definitely_ Ebs.”

“ _Totally_ Ebs,” Nuge agrees thoughtfully.

“ _Guys_ ,” Connor interrupts. “Go easy on him.”

Nuge walls back to his stall with a shit-eating grin when he says so that tells him he won’t live this down anytime soon.

“We’re just glad you’re happy,” Connor tells him later, once the room’s mostly cleared out. “I went through the same thing after Dylan and I got together, they mean well, you know? But we like seeing you happy, don’t forget that.”

Ryan blinks once, twice, the words hanging thick in the air. “Thank you,” he says, a beat too late and for the first time in his life he’s not sure what to say. “I feel like _I_ should be the one giving relationship advice, though, don’t you think?” is what he settles on, and he bumps his shoulder against Connor’s because he can be chill, thank you very much.

“God, please don’t,” Connor says, but he’s laughing, and Ryan’s finally as happy as he’s ever going to be.

*

Later when John and Jordan walk into the locker room hand-in-hand, the guys don’t acknowledge it much aside from scattered chirps from Nick and some of the other older guys, but it feels significant, anyway, like a new beginning: it’s not John’s first time doing this, but this particular second time feels more important than the first.

“You were right, by the way,” John says to Nick in between drills, looking over to the opposite side of the ice where Jordan’s talking to Beau. Whatever Beau says to him elicits a bright, happy smile, and both John and Nick can’t help but smile, too.

“I’m a genius, I _told_ you,” Nick says, and as much as John doesn’t want to admit it, he’s right. “I’m happy for you,” he says, more sincerely. “For as hard as you work, you deserve some good things in your life.”

And God, he’ll never get used to hearing that. “Thank you,” he says, a beat too late, to the empty air after Nick’s already skated off to work on his slapshot with Greiss.

*

Jordan fits into John and Ryan’s weirdly codependent routines almost seamlessly, easier than he expected to.

Mornings are a learning curve, Jordan quickly learns; John will oversleep any alarm unless bribed out of bed with coffee, and it only takes Jordan a total of four days to figure out that if he puts John’s mug of coffee on the nightstand John will reach for it and then immediately nestle back into his pile of blankets, fall back asleep, and they won’t get anywhere, but if he puts it on the counter in the kitchen and makes breakfast, John will shuffle into the kitchen in search for it before their food is ready. Jordan gets good at making John’s mornings as easy as possible.

John is serious about pre-game naps, and more often than not he’ll fall asleep on Jordan’s shoulder halfway through the Mets game because he prefers the warmth human contact provides over the broken heater in the bedroom.

He learns that John prefers old-fashioned phone calls with Ryan over Skype calls because it means he can watch tape or pick up dinner as he talks, but Ryan likes seeing John while they talk, so they do both.

(Jordan likes the real thing, when Ryan flies out to Brooklyn during the Oilers’ bye week toward the end of November, for Christmas, that one weekend in December when his practices must have been optional.)

Things are the same as they were when Jordan first got here, except now when he wants to kiss the frown off John’s face, when he wants to pull John into a hug after an especially tough loss, when he wants to fix John’s hair because John styles it with a _cruel_ amount of hair gel, he just — does.

*

It’s January again, and John had forgotten what weather in the single digits felt like.

“Weather this cold should be _illegal_ ,” John mumbles as he and Jordan step out of the airport and into the Edmonton air that freezes around them.

Jordan laughs and pulls John’s beanie further down to cover his ears as they wait for Ryan to find them. “C’mon, we’re Canadian, this isn’t even that bad,” he says, though his teeth chatter a little. “Plus, it’s the middle of _winter_ , what were you expecting?

After leaning down to draw Jordan into a kiss, for warmth more than anything else, John says, “I mean, it was above zero before we got here.”

Before they can bicker any further, John feels Ryan’s arms wrap around his waist and stick his hands in John’s pockets; when he turns around Ryan presses a kiss to his jaw and says, “Hey.”

“Hi,” John says. “We missed you.”

“I missed _you_ ,” Ryan says. “Both of you.”

Jordan watches as Ryan kisses John, slowly and sweetly, as more of a reminder that they’re finally together again more than a greeting. It feels — more important than just a hello, an I missed you, but more like they never really left each other at all.

“Hey, hey, my turn,” Jordan says after Ryan pulls away, John’s gaze never leaving his mouth, and Ryan happily obliges, tipping Jordan’s head up slightly with a finger under his chin and kissing him just as long and gentle as he had John, and Jordan’s pleasantly surprised when Ryan’s lips still taste like cake batter chapstick and cherry cola.

“We should go,” Ryan mumbles regretfully after a minute, though he doesn’t loosen his possessive grip on Jordan’s hips. “Pretty sure I parked illegally.”

“Of _course_ you did.” Jordan doesn’t even sound surprised.

*

The next morning is Ryan waking up slowly, sandwiched in the middle of John and Jordan; it’s golden sunlight spilling over freshly washed white sheets because Ryan wanted everything to look nice. It’s Ryan trying to get out of bed and Jordan pulling him close to make his “stay” sound more convincing, and how can Ryan say no to that.

*

John emerges from the bedroom some time later, heading to the kitchen with the intent of finding coffee and cereal, maybe even eggs if Jordan can be persuaded, but he walks in the room and the first thing he sees is a hand on bare skin.

After the initial surprise sinks in, he follows the hand up and sees Jordan sitting on the countertop, and Ryan, shirtless, standing in between his legs. Jordan, with a hand tangled in his hair and his lips attached to Ryan’s lips, to his neck, the breathy sounds Ryan makes when Jordan nips at his collarbone.

John stands there longer than he should, committing the moment to mind despite knowing he probably _won’t_ even have to, that this might turn into a regular thing with them—

“Look who’s finally awake,” Ryan says, and that snaps John back to reality. “Sleeping beauty emerges from his slumber,” he teases.

John frowns. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s also half past one in the afternoon, babe,” Ryan drawls, making his way over to the fridge as Jordan hops down from the counter and presses a mug of warm coffee to John’s chest.

“Hey,” Jordan says. “Good morning. Are you hungry? I’m _starving_.”

“We didn’t wanna eat without you,” Ryan informs him very seriously. “ _Ebs_ didn’t want to wait, and I know how you like your eggs and he doesn’t, so we waited,” and John’s never loved him more.

“Eggs sound nice,” John says, borderline emotional over a conversation about breakfast, God.

Ryan makes three plates of scrambled eggs, Jordan makes toast, and John sits on the counter and watches because his cooking skills begin and end at pouring milk in cereal and ordering pizza, so he lets the two of them work in silence, moving around each other seamlessly like they’ve had it mastered for years. And John — John never thought he’d ever have this, but he now has a wall in his living room dedicated to pictures in neat frames of Ryan’s dog and of Jordan’s first day of school and of John with his sisters at his first baseball game, and he has Jordan singing off-key in the shower every morning and Ryan’s sleep-hazy voice on Skype every night and it’s not perfect, but it feels as right as it ever will and John’s so, _so_ happy.

*

“Jordan Eberle for Ryan Strome, Revisited” makes it onto the front page of the newspaper in Edmonton, the day after John and Jordan fly back to Brooklyn, and absence will always make the heart grow fonder.

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to [lauren](http://twitter.com/pauliemartins) for looking this over around eighty times whenever i wrote like fifteen new words and immediately texted her for validation. she's the reason this isn't a heaping pile of garbage.  
> my twitter is [here](http://twitter.com/bboesers), let's be friends.


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